


Bailey "Boomer" Barnes

by Entropyrose, Hiemallily



Series: Baby Boomer [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A/B/O, Alpha Brock Rumlow, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Canon Divergent, Canon What Canon, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Nipple Play, Omega Bailey "Boomer" Barnes, Omega Bucky Barnes, Omegaverse, Unhappy Ending, graphic rape scene, guided masturbation, mentioned mpreg, underage sexual situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 00:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9574250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Entropyrose/pseuds/Entropyrose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiemallily/pseuds/Hiemallily
Summary: A special Thank-you to RedPredator for all your input and help with formulating the storyline!Growing up the son of The Winter Soldier and Captain America isn't easy--it's made even worse when mother nature intervenes. Bailey "Boomer" Barnes is a bright 15-year-old kid just starting to carve out his own path in life. Brock Rumlow is a guy just trying to get on with his. And as always, nothing ever goes as planned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following depicts situations of a sexual (if fictional) nature involving a 15-year old and a 50-year old. No sexual intercourse, but plenty of allusions to it. Don't say you weren't warned.

She looks a little taller closer up, and he can smell the bitter copper and brine from the harbor. She is rusty, too—a green glow of patina cakes each and every rivet piecing her together and orange streaks of rust run down her skirt. He has seen her hundreds of thousands of times by now—she’s a permanent fixture in the New York skyline. 

He’s never really understood why hundreds of thousands of people flock to see her each year, but he’s not about to tell his Dad that. He watches him stare up at her with a nostalgic, sad kind of smile, his blue eyes bathed in the light reflecting off her iron robes. 

“She was the first sight any of them saw,” Steve says, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Many of them were escaping hunger, oppression, exile.” He nods towards the statue. “And she was the sign of opportunity. For hope of a new life. For a fighting chance.” 

Boomer rolls his eyes when he’s sure his Dad’s not looking and takes a deep bite of his ice cream. “You sound like one of those old guys on the History channel.” 

Steve chuckles and shoves his hand in his pocket, jingling his keys. “Yeah, I suppose I do.” He ruffles the tuft of ice-blond hair on the kid’s head and steals the cherry from the top of the cone, popping it into his mouth with a grin. 

“Hey—!” He slaps his Dad’s thick bicep and hops off the break-wall. “You owe me a new cone,” he gruffs, a smile hidden under thick bangs. 

“We’ve gotta cut that hair,” Steve mutters absentmindedly as they make their way to the parking lot. “Alright, I suppose it’s time to go get your Father.” 

* * * * * 

The butt of Bucky’s Sig-Sauer finds Rumlow’s face, effectively knocking him to the ground, but the Operative rolls away, jabbing a booted foot into his shin. 

“Keep every angle in mind,” Rumlow shouts as Bucky slides to the floor. He unsheathes a rubber knife hidden deep in his vest and slices the air near Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s metal hand traps the knife and he flips it into his gloved one and holds it under Rumlow’s chin. Rumlow huffs out a winded laugh and raises his hands in surrender. 

“Every angle.” Bucky’s eyes shift to the line of uniformed recruits whose jaws are dropped in stupefied awe. “Because it will either mean opportunity, or your death.” 

“Always said you’d be the death of me,” Rumlow mutters into Bucky’s ear, giving him a secretive grin.

Bucky slyly returns the expression, sliding the practice blade back to its owner. He trots a few steps backward, keeping his eyes locked on Rumlow as he exists the red-taped circle and taps the shoulder of the wide-eyed student at the end of the line. “Now you try. Keep your focus towards the center of his body, but don’t lose sight of his limbs.” 

The kid hesitates forward, stepping into the ring with shaky hands. Rumlow sheathes the blade, hunkering down into a ready stance, hands open, fingers wiggling. “C’mon,” he barks. The kid goes for a roundhouse kick right off, and Rumlow easily blocks it with an open palm, one jerk of his wrist sending the kid tumbling to the mat. He rolls away and pops back up on the other side of the circle, panting. 

“Watch his stance,” Bucky orders, his booted feet landing heavily as he circles the fighters. “You’re not going to be landing a hit any time soon if you don’t get him off-balance.” 

Another lunge awards Rumlow with a fist to his ribs, his side-step too slow for the kid’s wiry physique. He counters with a grappling hold, both arms under the recruit’s as they fight for control. The kid’s long legs jut out every which-way, trying to latch around Rumlow’s boots and falter him. Rumlow side-steps easily, taking the kid’s upper half with him and causing his feet to splay out from under him. He drops him to the mat with an undignified “thud”. 

“Not bad,” Rumlow instructs, offering a hand down to him. The recruit wipes his mouth with his forearm and grasps hold. “The key is to get your opponent to forget about what their body is doing in response to yours. Easier to find an opening.” 

“And never forget surprise attacks!” A blur of blond and denim spins into the circle, colliding with Rumlow’s back and forcing him over his feet. Rumlow barks out a laugh and traps the wiggling body underneath one bicep, squeezing down mercilessly. 

“Say it.” 

“Never!,” the compact little body wriggles under his, soft hair tickling the inside of Rumlow’s arm. 

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Rumlow chimes and squeezes down harder, squeezing a sharp squeak from the puny assailant. 

Bucky lets out a disgruntled sigh as he rounds up the uniformed students. “Alright, class. To the showers.” As the line of students shuffles out, Bucky plucks his son from Rumlow’s arm, absentmindedly tending to the creases in his jacket. 

“How did it go?” Steve approaches casually, arms folded across his chest. 

“That’s Captain America,” one of the students softly lauds to a classmate on her way out. A smile tugs at Steve’s mouth as the stares and murmurs of admiration follow. 

“You just had to steal our thunder, ey Cap?” Rumlow swipes a towel from the rack and swings it over his neck. 

“They’re showing promise,” Bucky murmurs, ignoring his remark, but his tone suggests he’s less impressed with this year’s batch of Shield Recruits. 

“Well, that’s cause they haven’t met me yet,” the short blond chides, rolling up the jacket sleeve on each bicep. 

Rumlow quirks an eyebrow and Steve ruffles the milky yellow hair on top of his head. “Yes, son. We know.” 

“Not cool, Dad.” The kid swats at Steve’s hand as the trio has a good laugh at his expense. 

“Alright, let’s get out of here,” Bucky announces, swinging a black duffel over his shoulder and heading for the door. “I’m guessing you have homework to do when we get back.” 

“Nope, got it all done at school.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. Mr. Hendsen let me stay in his classroom during lunch. So I was wondering, Dad, could Uncle Rumlow take me for a ride?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You skipped lunch so you could go for a ride with your Uncle?” 

“Well…yeah.” 

Bucky slides a look between his husband and the grinning black-haired operative. Rumlow pauses, but when Steve doesn’t chime in with his usual objection, he shrugs and reaches in his pocket for his keys. “I’ll have him home before dinner.” 

“Dinner’s at six,” Steve mumurs, his eyes narrowing a vague amount. 

“Six,” Rumlow repeats.

“Yes!” The kid clamps all for limbs around the unsuspecting operative, who steadies a hand on his back to keep from falling over. 

“Easy there, kiddo.” 

“What do you say?,” Bucky prods. 

“Thanks Dad!” The kid chirps. 

“Come on,” Brock mutters into his ear, wiggling the keys so they let out a happy chime. “Before either of them changes their mind.” 

The two exit out the back, laughing back and forth giddily and going on about what their day was like, while the two parents are left standing in the center of the fighting ring, watching them leave. 

“I’m proud of you,” Bucky says first. 

Steve blows out a sigh through his nose and pulls his mate into his chest, wrapping two mighty arms around his shoulders and planting a kiss on his forehead. “Yeah well, he did earn it this time at least.” 

Bucky lets out a soft laugh, squeezing Steve’s middle tight. 

* * * * * 

His name might be Bailey, but he hasn’t been called that in years. Not since he smacked his head into a wall while chasing after Uncle Tony’s cleaning robot at the ripe old age of 3. Earned himself a giant welt on his forehead and a nickname. Steve had swooped him up in those big arms of his, preparing for the explosion of screams and tears—but as his parents would explain to him much later, he just gave his Daddy a wide, gappy grin and yelled “Boom!” 

“Yeah, you’re a Boomer alright,” Steve had chided, drawing his little chubby body in for a hug. 

Boomer. 

It has grown with him and has actually had earned him some cred in high school. Now in 9th grade, he is popular and sharp and good at sports, everything the son of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers should be.  
“Faster!” Boomer shouts into Rumlow’s ear, nearly knocking their helmets together as he leans over his shoulder to egg him on. The slick bike slices through the rush-hour traffic, making quick work of 7th Avenue. 

“Not here,” Rumlow corrects him. “You wanna go faster, kid, we’ll need to head West, out to the ‘burbs.” 

“Lets do it then! Aww, come on, Uncle Rum, please can we?” 

Rumlow snorts, shaking his head and wondering to himself when Boomer will outgrow his penchant for pleading for everything he wants (probably when Rumlow stops caving to him). He drags out his sigh to make certain it doesn’t go unnoticed as he flicks on his left blinker, veering past the cars that are all going at a turtle’s pace comparatively. 

“Yes!” Boomer wiggles back down into his seat, clamping his hands around Rumlow’s waist and pawing at his leather jacket in the process.

Rumlow lowers his visor and hits the throttle, the tires squealing underneath of them as they peel off into the hills. 

95 is as fast as Rumlow will take it with Boomer in tow. Even at this speed, they can both feel the road sucking them into each turn. At the top of the climb, in the outermost portions of the New York suburbs, sits a little gas station where they pull in and fill up. It’s late fall; the trees are ablaze with color and the sun sinks low in the horizon. “Time to get you home,” he says, topping off the fuel. 

“You’re staying for dinner right?” 

Rumlow ignores the small sting that rolls through him and shakes his head. “Don’t think so, kiddo. You know how your Dad is about me hanging out…” Over the years, the excuses of being tired or having to work late have lost their effectiveness. Best to go with the facts of what the kid can plainly see for himself. 

Boomer glowers, jamming the helmet back on and fastening the strap under his chin. “Dad sucks.” 

A snicker escapes his lips as Rumlow climbs back on the bike and gives the handles a few test-twists. “You don’t mean that. Sides, maybe you wanna spend some time with your parents, now that school is back in session?” 

Boomer wrinkles his nose. “Not really.” 

Rumlow is left shaking his head and smiling down at the brat. What a little punk he’s turning out to be. Some strange way, it endears him a little more to Rumlow. His Daddy’s stubborn, rebellious streak mixed with Steve’s warrior spirit makes for a fiery combo, all topped off with Boomer’s own brand of unrefined sass. He takes it a little slower on the way back down, drawing out the ride just a bit more and enjoying the tug of the fingers that draw him a little closer. 

Steve and Bucky opted for a small high-rise just a few blocks away from the Avengers tower. Steve said he wanted to raise his son in as normal an environment as possible, as if the Avengers team and their extra-super-special brand of Crazy wouldn’t follow them there.

It is minimally decorated; just a few of Boomer’s school pictures hang on the neutral-colored walls. The smell of cooking spaghetti sauce permeates the air and has Rumlow’s mouth watering in spite of himself. Bucky is the first to round the corner to the entry way; gone are the battle-ready tactical fatigues, replaced with an oversized pair of sweatpants that hang well below his navel and a white tank top that proudly showcases his physique. 

Whether its DNA or the Super-solider serum, Bucky has barely aged. He is still pouty-mouthed and baby-faced. Rumlow finds himself a bit envious of that—the last few years have seen a steady increase of the white hairs that speckle the stubble of his chin and creep through the temples of his hairline. 

Cap, though. 

Cap’s hair looks like a lighter blond, coated with sugary white hair. Lines that have settled around his eyes, bit Rumlow is a little disappointed to admit it makes him no less attractive. His scent has changed, too; gone is the bitter spice of a newly mated rival-alpha. It has matured into a slow, deep burn that settles into a heavy ball into the pit of Rumlow’s stomach upon inhale—it is sated, fixed. Permanent.

“You two have fun?,” Bucky asks, one hip cocked, one strand of auburn hair hanging in his face. Boomer is already brushing past him, charging into the kitchen and plucking the wooden spoon from the sauce pan, licking a stripe up the middle. 

“Hey!” Steve snatches it away, reeling it back as if to paddle his behind and Boomer lets out an animated shriek, stumbling backwards into Bucky and spinning him around. 

“Daddy!” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, glancing back at his son. “I’m not savin’ you.” He ruffles the hair of the grinning kid and steals a glance back at Rumlow, who is quietly grinning as he watches the scene. “Thanks for taking him.” Wavering on his feet as Boomer peers at his Uncle from behind him, Bucky adds sheepishly, “Would…would you like to stay for dinner?”

Rumlow feels the automatic pull from the doorway. “Oh, ahh. Thanks for the invite. But I don’t…I’ve got some work back at the…” 

Boomer’s face falls. “No he doesn’t. He just doesn’t want Dad getting pissed again.” 

Bucky’s eyes fly open. “Bailey!” 

“S’true!” 

There are moments when Brock feels like the unneeded extra appendage on an otherwise perfectly functional machine. He chucks Boomer gently under his chin, watching Steve’s scowling form in the corners of his vision. “See ya later, kiddo.” With a sharp pointer finger aimed right at his nose, he adds, “Be good!”

Rumlow grabs the door handle, maybe a little more hastily than he should, and exits before he can hear a murmured conversation ensue. Bucky will say something about Steve being more accepting or willing for Rumlow to be in Boomer’s life. Steve will respond gruffly, under his breath, that Boomer already *has* two fathers. 

It’s strange, this feeling of being wanted. After 15 years of having a personal shadow following him everywhere he goes, Rumlow still hasn’t quite gotten used to it. Maybe Boomer isn’t his biologically, but when Bucky asked all those years ago if he’d take on being the kid’s god-parent, he felt something awaken inside of him that he hadn’t known was there. 

What was this inescapable feeling? The thing that made his heart jump every time he saw his face? (Rumlow shakes away the thoughts, lighting up a cigarette as he heads back to his bike.) 

Naw. Couldn’t be.

* * * * * 

Rumlow is in the middle of his mid-day weight session the next day when his cell phone chimes. He flips it open to the sound of a frantic voice on the other end. “Rumlow. Oh, Thank god! Uhm. Boomer’s missing. Have you seen him?” 

The caller ID says “Bucky-cell” but it’s Steve’s voice on the other end, high-pitched and strained, like he’s dangling on the verge of his own sanity. Rumlow bolts up on the bench, swiping away a streak of sweat as he switches shoulders. “What? No, not since last night. Where’s Bucky?” 

“He’s with me.” There is a muffled noise of a busy crowd in the background and intermittent puffs of air hit the receiver as Steve makes his way through. 

“Where are you guys?” 

“We’re at the school. The Principle just called us a few minutes ago. Boomer didn’t show for fourth hour and nobody here as seen him.” 

Rumlow flicks a nervous tongue over his lips, eyelashes flitting about the room as his brain scrambles to map out a visual of the school in his mind. “Okay, so nobody saw him leave?” 

Steve’s panic rises. “No! I mean, why would he leave?”  
“Did you guys get in some kind of argument or something yesterd—“ 

“NO!,” Steve barks. “Christ, Rumlow—“ 

“Okay, calm down, Cap. I didn’t mean anything by it. Kids run away all the time, and I’m sure—“ 

“No, not *this* kid!,” Steve’s voice gets suddenly dark and commanding, Captain America taking over in the rising tide of panic. “Not Boomer. Look, you call me if you see anything or hear from him, okay?”

Rumlow pauses, hesitating into the phone, mouth dropped open. He wants to ask how Bucky is—can only imagine, if Steve is this mental over a kid whose been missing for five minutes, Bucky’s either inconsolable or so far into Winter-Soldier mode that it’s not safe for anyone to talk to him. But regardless of Bucky’s mental state, he knows asking Steve how his mate is—his omega that *used* be to Rumlow’s omega—is only going to push him over the edge. “O-okay.” He barely rattles out the word before the other end of the line goes dead. 

Rumlow sits on the end of the bench, staring out into nothingness. The distant sound of thunder rumbles and his eyes flit up to the window just as a spatter of rain starts down. “Fuck. Shit, okay…” He surges forward and makes it to the door in three quick strides, swiping a towel off the rack as he goes by. 

* * * * * 

A search of the school turned up nothing. The Avengers tower: nothing. The old comic book shop on 15th and Chase where he sometimes walks after school: nothing. Shield: nothing. Rumlow has been pushing down that tendril of fear all day—the one that tries to coil around his heart and eat away his nerve-endings. 

He should have thought of it. So fricking obvious. He should have tried his apartment first. Rumlow unlocks the door and it swings open to reveal a blond-haired fifteen year old sitting upright on the edge of his bed. Boomer holds his hands together between his knees, eyes locked on the floor. 

“You little shit.” Rumlow lets out a shuddering breath before streaking across the room and gathering him up into his arms. “Jesus, fuck, you are in so much trouble.” Where have you been? What were you thinking? Why? All the questions crowd together in Rumlow’s mind. He gathers the boy’s face in his hands, staring down into the green/hazel eyes that dart off to the side. A spicy/sweet scent curls teasingly underneath Rumlow’s nostrils and he breaths in the new scent. It reminds him of what Bucky smells like, what he used to smell like when they…

Rumlow jerks back, holding Boomer out at arm’s length as his alpha senses vie for control of his judgement. “Jesus…” Rumlow holds the sleeve of his jacket against his face, but that does almost nothing to block the scintillating aroma. 

“I know,” Boomer grinds out between clenched teeth. He skitters a hand through his hair as a glossy tear runs down his cheek. 

Rumlow sits back, stunned. 

“I…I came to the only place I…” Boomer hiccups a little through the tears that now flow freely, biting back a full sob. “I don’t want this.” 

Rumlow’s hand wavers in the air, hesitating just inches from the tuft of blond hair at the top of the kid’s head. He pulls back, wrestling inside himself between fatherly instinct and the sensation of newfound, desperate hunger. “It’s okay. Are—are you okay?” 

Boomer shakes his head vehemently. “No! I don’t know what to do! I never wanted to be like this! I thought, you know, my Dad’s Captain America, and…I thought…” He lets out a breathy shudder and gasps, suddenly holding his stomach. “Owh.”

“You alright?”

“No!,” he snaps, turning away, shamelessly burying his head in a pillow. “God, it wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. I’m not supposed to be…” His eyes flutter closed as his fingers curl in around his lower abdomen and a pink glow lights up his face. 

Rumlow has to fight to get ahold of himself. This is his godchild for fuck’s sake, and yet his body is responding like a wild animal to the kill. Rumlow wets his lips, reaching out—trying again—the back of his hand presses against Boomer’s forehead and the kid moans. “You’re burning up.” He reaches for his phone. 

“No! You can’t!” Boomer’s hand clamps down on Rumlow’s wrist with surprising force, his teary eyes glittering up into Rumlow’s. “Please! They just…Please. I can’t tell them.” 

Rumlow’s hand stills on the phone and he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Your Dads still think you’re missing. They’re both worried to death. I have to tell them something.”

“Okay, fine. Tell…” Boomer’s pink tongue flicks out across his mouth and Rumlow suppresses the shiver of pleasure that skidders up his spine. “Tell them I’m here. But! Tell them not to come. Please. They can’t come!” 

Rumlow shakes his head sadly, but he’d kill for those sparkling green eyes. “Alright. I can’t make any promises.” 

Bucky picks up the other end. “He’s here,” Rumlow says and he hears a cry of exhausted relief. 

“Thank GOD. Oh, my god. Thank you. Is he—“

“He’s fine, Buck.” Rumlow makes his way out to the porch, out of earshot of the kid curled up on his bed. The brisk New York night creeps along his skin and cools every synapse. “He’s uhm…he wants to stay here for the night. If it’s okay.”

“What? Why?” 

Rumlow chews on his answer, placing a hand on the railing and looking down at the glittering lights of the city below. “He got in a fight at school.”

“Another one? The principle didn’t mention anything…Is he alright?” 

“Oh yeah, he’s uhm. He’s fine. Just a little banged up. He wants to stay over here and sleep it off.”

“You sure you’re alright with that? I’ll tell Steve, but I can’t promise he won’t want to rush right over and bring him home.”

Rumlow chuckles at this. “That’s what I told him. Just…remind him of all the stupid shit you and him pulled back in the day. Maybe that’ll help him to lay off.” 

“Doubtful,” Bucky says, and he can hear the smile in his voice. “Tell my son I love him and that he is grounded indefinitely. And Rumlow?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Thanks again. I shoulda known he’d come to you.” 

Brock hangs up, sliding the phone back into his pocket and taking a deep breath of frozen air as if it’s his last. 

Boomer has faded off into a restless sleep, one tennis shoe having fallen off his foot and tumbled onto the floor. He hugs the pillow, his eyes tightly shut, blond hair falling around his face. “That was fast.” Rumlow drags the blanket up over his sleeping form, pausing to brush a tendril of hair away from his forehead. Boomer lets out a stifled moan. 

If he is going to withstand the spicy smell of the kid’s heat invading his apartment, he’s going to need to drown himself in booze. He makes his way to the cabinet across the hall, quietly slipping a carafe of whiskey from its place on the shelf. He props himself on the counter, leaning against it with one arm as he stares down Boomer’s sleeping form. He takes a deep swig and rolls the burning drink around in his mouth before swallowing. 

When he finishes his whiskey, he plucks a knitted throw from the back of the recliner and sprawls out on the couch, kicking his boots off onto the carpet and wriggling down into the plush cushions. He lets the alcohol go to work as it crawls up into his brain and numbs his senses, letting out a sated sigh when the tingle reaches his limbs. He closes his eyes and wills himself not to think about having to deal with an emerging, horny omega and his two parents (who are not doubt going to be a mixture of bewildered and pissed when they find out what’s really going on). Tomorrow, he reminds himself. He can think about all that tomorrow. 

Minutes later, he is awakened by the weight of an anvil on his chest and sharp little fingernails clawing at his tank. “The fuck…” His dick is knotted into a throbbing gourd between his legs as the body above rubs against him in a frantic back-and-forth rhythm. “Shit!” He lets out a guttural groan between clenched teeth as the surge of pleasure rockets through his spine and jams his hands down on the wandering fingers, collecting the wrists attached to them. 

The body above lets out a frustrated grunt. “No…don’t stop…” 

Boomer’s hips thrust mechanically over the bulge trapped beneath him, furiously trying to wring his hands free. Rumlow jolts up with all the force of a bull, spilling the kid onto the opposite end of the couch, roaming hands still gathered in one of Rumlow’s fists. “Shit—Jesus, kid!” Rumlow winces as his trapped cock twitches in the pants that now feel three times too small on him. A wet patch spills outward as it spasms angrily, the loss of the begging little body on top too much to bear. His heart pounds so loudly in his eardrums that he can barely make out Boomer’s gasps from his own and he separates himself from the kid as far as his arms will allow. “STOP.” 

“I…I can’t…” Boomer swallows hard, and Rumlow believes him. Boomer’s greenish blue eyes are hazed over with the need that’s taking over his whole being, his scent curling seductively under Rumlow’s nostrils tauntingly. 

Rumlow flicks a tongue over coarse lips and gives his hands a little shake. “I’m…I’m gonna let go. Okay?” 

Boomer’s eyes flicker closed, his mouth parted and panting. He nods weakly, biting his pouty bottom lip. “Hmm-hm.” 

“I’m gonna let go and you’re going to stay right. Where. You. Are.” Rumlow’s fingers unfurl, the contact of his skin against the softness of the boy’s lighting little sparks straight through his dick. Rumlow slides away, flattening himself against the far corner of the couch, eyes warily locked on Boomer.

He should be fucking him right now. 

He should be bending that perfect ass over the back-end of the couch and drilling him as hard and as fast as the kid needs, it, and he *knows* he needs it. He should be attacking those perky pink nipples with his mouth and biting into his firm, tender flesh and marking him, *claiming* him until he begs for it, begs to be writhing on the tip of his cock, pleading to be filled with his seed, to be *knotted*, because that’s what he was made to do, what he was *bred* for…

Rumlow shakes his head, clearing the thoughts away for only a split second and high-tailing it to the bathroom. He closes and locks the door, his back against the wall, sliding downward until the floor hits his ass. He hears the heartbroken, frustrated sobs on the other side of the door. 

“Please…” Nails scratch down the door, those sharp little nails that were trailing down his chest just moments ago, and Rumlow swallows sharply. 

“Trust me, kid.” He grabs at his cock, readjusting himself in his pants and leaning his head back against the wall. “You’ll thank me in the morning.” 

The kid lets out a doubtful huff and sits down, too, the shadow of his crouched form darkening the sliver of light coming from under the doorway. “I’m…wet,” he admits bashfully, and fireworks light up Rumlow’s insides. It’s just instinct, their bodies reacting the way they were intended to towards one-another. 

“Yeah, it’s uh…” Rumlow fiddles with his fly as if scratching an itch he can’t quite get to. “It’s what happens, to uhm…to, you know…” 

“Omegas.” 

Rumlow sighs. “Yeah.” 

“Fuck!” Boomer’s fist tamps against the floor, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He draws his knees up to his chest, swiping a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “I didn’t want this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this!”

“I know,” Rumlow murmurs. The kid’s velvety voice is a distraction, a siren’s call to what is about to become Rumlow’s full-blown knot. The pressure is painful. He tears open his fly and his fleshy rod springs out, veiny and pulsating and glossy with his own slick. “It’s…It’s not that big of a deal, you know,” Rumlow lies. 

Not surprisingly, the son of the Winter Soldier sees right through his bullshit. He scoffs darkly, tugging at the jeans that have suddenly become too hot to continue wearing. “What do I do?,” he asks, his voice small, insecure. Scared. 

“For what?” 

“You know…to uhm…to make it go away.” 

Rumlow’s throat is suddenly parched. No way is he going to make it. Not having to coach this kid through his own heat. Rumlow scratches the sudden itch that crawls up his neck, his fingers sweeping across the engorged veins there, and sighs. Great. The kid has thrown him into a rut. “Nothing will make it go away, per se, but you can get a little relief by uhm…well, you know.” 

“Touching it?” 

“Yeah.” Rumulow’s eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised the kid already gets it. When he was 15, he was busy doing prostitutes in the back of greasy diners and shooting up massive doses of rut increasers. He swallows hard at the sound of Boomer wriggling out of his jeans—the swish of heavy fabric on tight, smooth skin as he brings himself out of his pants. Rumlow hears the stifled moan and the soft, methodical slap of skin on skin. The kid’s breath gets increasingly shorter, sharper, and Rumlow watches the shadow under the doorway move in a spasmodic rhythm. 

Rumlow leans back as his calloused hand falls down to his own member and wraps around tight. His cock twitches in his fist and spatters his fingers with precome. He brings his mind off the boy by focusing his mind’s eye on his Daddy—how Bucky used to look on top of him, brown hair spilling down his shoulders, face warped in pleasure, mouth hanging open. 

“Are you…are you touching yourself, too?” Boomer’s voice is small as his climax reaches higher and higher. 

“Yeah,” Rumlow means for it to come out like a moan but somewhere in the middle of his throat it becomes a harsh growl as he pumps away at his throbbing member.

“What does it feel like…you know…to be in someone?” 

“It’s uh…” Rumlow tries, unsuccessfully, to steady his breathing as the tips of his fingers glide over his glossy, veiny shaft to the twisted head of his cock. “It’s tight,” he manages. “It’s incredibly tight and incredibly hot.” 

A keening wail echoes from the other side of the door, a sob catching in Boomer’s throat as he pets his impossibly hard dick. “Why…why can’t we—?” 

“Because you’re just a kid, Boom.” It’s not that the thought hasn’t crossed his mind. It has, on too many occasions. Rumlow might never admit it to the kid, but he smelled the *omega* on him a long time before presenting as one. He has wanted him for a long time. Because of that tight little body and those haunting green eyes. Because of his attitude and his sass and the mile-wide rebellious streak that reminds him of…

“Daddy told me you used to be together.” 

Rumlow’s back stiffens, a cold shock suddenly running through him. “Uhm. Yeah. Yeah, we were together for a while.”

“What was it like…you know…with him?” 

His throat now feels like the sides are sealed together. This feels so wrong. It feels so wrong and so good and so incredibly hot… “It was…it was amazing.” 

“Do you love him?” 

Rumlow frowns. “You know I do.” 

“No, I mean, do you love him. *That* way.” 

He swallows hard, dragging down the lump in his throat as his fingers go numb from rubbing himself raw and he feels his climax catching. “Mh….Yeah. Yeah. I do.” 

There is a pause on the other end with just Boomer’s pathetic, beautiful whimpers and the sound of him stroking himself off to fill the silence. “Do you think you could love me that way?” 

Rumlow can’t answer—his cock is arched up backward into his hand as his orgasm rockets through his system and he comes, white spray spattering his stomach and the fabric of his tank tee and stealing every ounce of air from his lungs. His knot swells at the base of his dick, choking it off and angrily fighting to keep the seed locked inside for his failure to come inside of a warm, aching hole. It spasms, sending shooting pain down both of Rumlow’s legs as it successfully blocks the remaining semen off. Hot tears threaten to spill from his eyes and he lets out a shuddering breath. When he can finally breathe again, he hears ragged gasping from the other side of the door. “Pinch your nipples”, he instructs. 

“Mhh….wh-what?” 

“Pinch your nipples. Trust me.” 

Boomer feels his whole face flush as he reaches up into his shirt, obediently clamping down on a hardened bud and rolling it between his fingers. A sob catches in his throat. 

“Wait till that one’s nice and hard. Don’t stop rubbing yourself, though. It’s going to feel so much better.” 

“Really?” Boomer does as he’s commanded, pinching and working one nipple into a pin-sharp point before latching on to the other one. 

Rumlow slides his eyes shut, leaning his head against the door. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs when Boomer lets out a little squeal. “You have milk ducts in yours, that’s what makes it feel so good. When you have pups, those nipples swell a little so they can suck the milk out.”

Boomer’s face is now beet-red, but his body shamelessly reacts, his cock arching upward in his curled fingers, his bottom sliding around in his underwear from being so wet with his own lubricant. “Don’t wanna have pups,” he pouts. 

Rumlow laughs softly. “You don’t have to. You can do anything you want, never let anyone tell you otherwise. Look at your Daddy. Nobody tells him what to do.”

“Dad can,” Boomer says softly. He switches back to the first nipple; it has softened due to lack of attention. “He usually obeys whatever Dad says.”

Rumlow pushes down the tendril of jealousy that springs up. “That’s because your Daddy is an Omega. He was bred to obey his Alpha.” 

The comment has the desired effect, as Boomer scoffs sharply. “Nobody’s gonna tell me what to do, ever.” 

“I don’t doubt that, baby. You still squeezing those nipples?” 

“Mh…yeah.” Boomer bites down on his bottom lip, pulling at the sensitive nub. 

“Now pinch em.” 

“I…I am.” 

“No, you pinch down hard. Like someone’s sucking on ‘em. Imagine a mouth going around your tit and sucking in so hard you lose your breath, getting you wet with their spit.”

“Yeah?” It comes out as a tight, high squeal as Boomer obeys, clenching down with both fingers until sparks of pain fly down his stomach. “Owh. It hurts.” 

“I know. Do it harder.” Rumlow’s cock has barely gone down, the knot still inflated and furious. He gives it a few experimental tugs. 

A whine escapes Boomer’s clenched teeth. “Uncle Rumlow, can’t you…can’t you just?” 

“No,” Rumlow barks, grinding his mouth to the door. He flattens his palm to its wooden surface and listens to the keening wail as the euphoria climbs higher. Lust thickens the air around them and makes it hard to breathe, their scents mingling mid-air, doing what their bodies refuse to do. He can’t. He can’t open that door and trust himself to not attack the kid with his mouth, his hands, his body, his cock…  
“Just use your imagination, kiddo. Think of whoever you want, and just—“ 

“YOU.” Boomer barks out. “I—I want to think of you.” 

“Okay…” Rumlow wets his lips and tightens his grip around his veiny cock. “Alright, think of me, then. Imagine me sucking away on those bright pink tits of yours.” He blows his breath out through his nose in a vain attempt to keep his voice from shaking. “Think of me baring down between those warm, slick thighs and fitting my hips between ‘em.” 

“Ohh…..oh god…” Boomer’s voice becomes little more than a stifled wail. 

“I wanna fuck you, sweetheart. I do.” Rumlow dissolves against the door as his cock sputters in his hands, unleashing a stream of white as his climax comes over him like a steam-roller. “I want my cock buried in your tight little hole.” 

Boomer is crying out now, as his body gives out with one last push against the floor and one more twist on each nipple, lungs scraping for air as he comes, convulsing against the door and dissolving into a writhing mass of limbs and shuddering breath. “Fuck…ah….” 

Rumlow runs a hand along the door, imagining stroking that finely-tuned, tight body. “Good boy. There, sweet thing. Good boy.” 

Boomer stares off into nothingness, waiting for the stars in his eyes to fade and for oxygen to return to the room.

Rumlow slumps against the wall, reaching behind him to absentmindedly pull a towel down from the rack behind him. He wipes himself off, the rut still playing havoc with his brain, the smell of barely-sated Omega rolling in through the crack in the door like smoke from a housefire. 

He piles a clean towel under his head on the bathroom floor and lets the muffled sound of Boomer’s breathing lull him back into a listless sleep.

[](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/rummer_zpsbirnvcm6.jpg.html)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Listen closely, you slimy sack of shit”—Rumlow’s eyebrows disappear underneath his bangs—“I won’t hesitate to separate your head from the rest of your body if I so much as suspect you have anything but the purest intentions for my son. Got it? He worships the ground you walk on and that’s the ONLY reason you’re still breathing right now.” Steve releases him with a shove, sending the back of Rumlow’s head bouncing off the drywall. “I hope he never finds out what a slithering, bottom-feeding scab you really are. For his sake.”

Steve watches the clock all night. He simply can’t understand how Bucky can be so lax about Boomer staying the night at Rumlow’s. Not because their son hasn’t done that a thousand times before. It’s that he hadn’t ever ran away like that before. Ever.

 

Bucky and Steve had both grown up, so long ago---over a hundred years ago, in fact—and the world has changed, drastically. Steve had to learn that the hard way. Bucky, on the other hand, never seems to have gotten the chance. He had been lost to years of reprogramming and hard-wiring that had made him more machine than man. Steve sometimes wonders how much of that conditioning remains. He thinks he knows the answer. He doesn’t want to know the answer.

 

Bucky has become very good at faking sleep. His heart rate thrums steadily in his chest as Steve presses his cheek against him, secretively glancing up at the clock every few minutes. As soon as that clock hits 6am, he is going to go collect his son and he’s going to throttle him. He’s going to make sure he’s okay first, obviously, _then_ he’s going to throttle him. Steve waits, breathlessly, and the hours tick by slower than a freeze-frame.

 

“He’ll be okay,” Bucky mumurs, his tone 1-part reassurance and 3-parts annoyance. He absent-mindedly brushes flesh fingers through the dusting of hair at the nape of Steve’s neck. “Rumlow will take care of him.”

 

“Yeah. You mean like he did with you?”

 

Bucky’s hand stilling and the silence that ensues is enough of an answer for Steve to know he fucked up.

 

He blows out a ragged breath and his eyes flit back up to the clock.

 

When it hits 5:42 he swipes the keys from the side table and darts out the front door.

 

* * * * *

 

Rumlow waits in the blackness of the hall. He’s not stupid. Any minute now, Steve is going pound on that door and demand to see his son.  And Rumlow’s going to have to prepare him for what waits inside that bedroom door. He adds a little more whiskey to his black coffee and takes a long slug, raking a hand through his freshly washed hair. The manufactured orange smell of fabric softener wafting through the air doesn’t so much mask the tendrils of heat-scent so much as adds to the chaos, but at least it distracts him. Yet another inconvenient thing about heats and ruts—the lengthy cleanup requirements.

 

6am, right on the dot, the door swings open. He didn’t bother locking it—it would have probably just gotten torn off its hinges if he had. Cap doesn’t knock when he’s pissed.

 

The six-foot-five Arian god struts in, swallowing the distance between them in two strides, blue eyes burning. “Where is he?”

 

“He’s in the bedroom—“ Rumlow rises from his spot on the counter but Cap is already halfway to the bedroom door. “Cap, we have to talk. CAP.”

 

The heat-scent hangs thick, and when Rumlow grabs Cap’s sleeve he tears away, the motion kicking it up right into both Alphas’ faces. Cap’s eyebrows quirk upward and he tilts his head towards the smell before his eyes land questioningly on Rumlow.

 

“Like I said,” Rumlow huffs, reaching behind him to slide a fresh cup of coffee across the table. “We need to talk.”

 

The look that Steve gives him is one of wild desperation, like his brain is scrambling to understand what is so clearly happening. At last arriving at acceptance, he swallows dryly, his shoulders slumping-just a little. “Does Bucky know?”

 

Rumlow shakes his head. “It apparently came on yesterday, sometime when he was in school. He came straight here. The kid’s scared, Cap.”

 

“Yeah no shit,” Steve murmurs into the distance. Suddenly, a fist has balled itself up under Rumlows chin, the black fabric of his uniform shirt threatening to shred like cheese as he is lifted off his heels. “Did you touch him?”

 

“No. GOD no.” Rumlow raises both hands in the air, signaling surrender. Steve’s nostrils flare as he tamps his nose against Rumlow’s cheek and takes a big whiff. Rumlow scrunches his nose, resisting the urge to shove the other Alpha clear to the other side of the room. “C’mon, man. You smell like shit. Back off!”

 

Steve releases him with a shove and Rumlow topples into the counter, catching himself just before his head goes straight through the coffee pot. “If I find otherwise, I swear to god I will gut you. Slowly.”

 

Rumlow’s hackles are straight up and he growls defensively before working himself back down with a few jaw flexes and another sip of spiked coffee. “Just…take it easy on him. Okay?” He smooths his shirt back down into place as Steve disappears down the hallway to the bedroom.

 

* * * * *

 

Steve hesitates at the handle, letting his breath out slow before raising his hand to rap his knuckles on the door instead.

 

“Go away,” Comes the tired, muffled sound.

 

“C’mon, bud. It’s me.”

 

“I know who it is,” Boomer pouts. The sound of shifting blankets reaches Steve’s ears as he switches sides on the bed. _Rumlow’s_ bed.

 

An icy prickle runs through his spine and Steve does his best to ignore it. He clears his throat, shuffling his feet before trying the handle. It’s unlocked. He slides the door open, a bittersweet smile crossing his face as he sees the ball of blond hair that peaks out from underneath a mound of blankets. He wants to rush over and throw his arms around him, hold him tight and never let him go, like he did when Boomer scraped his knee or cut his finger (which happened on a pretty regular basis. Thank god he is a fast healer.) How Steve suddenly longs for those days—the older the child gets, the deeper and more complex the problems. And this is one problem that no amount of parental love can fix.

 

“You scared the shit out of us,” he begins, locating a barren spot on the bed and sliding down into it. The scent of Boomer’s heat is thick but familiar. It’s a mixture of coriander, ice and fern—alot like Bucky’s. While it doesn’t smell particularly bad, (family members’ scents have evolved to be usually very unattractive-smelling to their relatives as it drastically cuts down on incest) it doesn’t seem very strong and its fairly easy for him to ignore.

 

“I know,” the lump in the bed says. “I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you just come home, bud?” Steve runs a wide hand along Boomer’s back and shoulders. Boomer shivers, pulling away closer to the far edge of the bed. Steve withdraws, swallowing back a twinge of hurt. “Are you…are you okay?”

 

“No, m’not okay!” A tidal wave of blankets erupts as Boomer furiously tosses them off, his face flushed and contorted into a mixture of pain and confusion. “I mean, what was I ‘sposed to say? Hi Dad, Hi Daddy. I ran out of class because I was sliming my seat and my stomach hurt and a bunch of the bigger guys were basically trying to fuck me?” He scrubs away at the bitter tears that roll freely down his face. “And fuck---now I’m crying! What the hell _is_ this shit?”

 

“Oh, Pup.” Steve smooths back a runaway lock of hair and gathers his face in his hands. “It’s completely normal. It’s…It’s my fault, probably. I should have prepared you for this. I just thought…well, we thought…you’d…you know…”

 

“Be an Alpha,” he murmurs. Boomer’s eyes shift upwards past Steve, towards the doorway, before falling back down to his lap, the redness in his face deepening.

 

Steve’s hand falls away and he shoots a dirty look behind his shoulder towards Rumlow, who is leaning against the open doorway, arms folded across his chest. Rumlow isn’t staring back. He is focused on the blond on the bed, his bright black eyes locked on, unblinking and an expression on his face that Steve can’t quite read. He spots his son’s backpack on the floor by the nightstand, the contents partially spilling out, and gathers it up along with his jacket. “Put your shoes on.” It’s said softly, but it’s an order nonetheless. “I’m taking you home.” He comes back into the hallway, his shoulder connecting with Rumlow’ even as the backs off, sliding the door closed softly behind him. All the gentleness going out from his face, as he keeps his eyes focused ahead. “If you really care for him, even the slightest bit…” Steve’s ice-blue eyes span across the hallway to burn into Rumlow’s. “You will back _way_ _off_.”

 

Rumlow’s arms are still crossed as he shrugs defensively. “Hey, he came to me, Cap. What does that tell you? Huh? That your own kid didn’t feel safe enough to come home—?” His shoulder-blades are bashed into the wall behind him, Steve’s clenched teeth and heady scent invading his face.

 

“Listen closely, you _slimy sack of shit_ ”—Rumlow’s eyebrows disappear underneath his bangs—“I won’t hesitate to separate your head from the rest of your body if I so much as _suspect_ you have anything but the purest intentions for my son. Got it? He worships the ground you walk on and that’s the ONLY reason you’re still breathing right now.” Steve releases him with a shove, sending the back of Rumlow’s head bouncing off the drywall. “I hope he never finds out what a slithering, bottom-feeding scab you really are. For _his_ sake.”

 

Rumlow grasps the back of his head and warm wetness seeps through his fingers. It doesn’t stop a sharp smirk from permeating his expression as he watches the noble, unblemished Captain America strut to the front door to wait for his son.

 

* * * * *

 

Bucky is the first person that can touch Boomer without sending his senses into overdrive since his heat hit. Boomer melts into his arms, his eyes fluttering closed as he fights back the tears. “S’okay,” Bucky coos, smoothing his hair back and planting a kiss on his forehead. “We’ll take you to the doc’s and get everything straightened out, alright?”

 

Boomer nods, his head buried deep into Bucky’s chest. Over his head, Bucky glances at Steve, giving him a reassuring smile. Everything will be alright. Everything will work out. Just like it always does.

 

* * * * *

 

“You should have taken the day off.” Rumlow’s rut smolders like burned cinders and wet grass in Bucky’s nostrils. A tendril of want/need unfurls somewhere deep in his belly and he pushes it down, running a greased cloth through the barrel of his Sig-Sauer and trying to look as nonchalant about it as possible. The smell that hits next, when Rumlow crosses the room to slide into the rolling chair beside him, is the acrid odor of alcohol. He rumples his nose. “Shit, you _really_ should have taken the day off.”

 

Rumlow lets out a sharp laugh and rolls closer, dipping his head underneath Bucky’s chin to play with a strand of cinnamon hair. “B’then I wouldn’t get to see you.”

 

Bucky quirks an eyebrow at his inebriated partner.

 

“It’s hard to hang with my best bud when Mr. Tall Blond and Stupid’s in the room…” Rumlow growls loosely in afterthought and Bucky can’t help but chuckle.

 

“God, how much have you had?”

 

“Hmmm…4.”

 

“Only 4 drinks?”

 

“Oh, drinks? I thought we were talking Rut Inhibitors.”

 

Bucky shifts away with an eye roll, sliding his shoulder out from Rumlow’s head and angling himself toward the pistol.

 

“Hey,” Rumlow eggs, his face falling serious. He scooches to close the distance Bucky gained, nosing his neck and rubbing his stubble on the exposed skin above his collar. Bucky gives him a futile, half-hearted swat before accepting his fate and plucking up a clean rag from the counter to wipe down the gun. “How is the little guy?”

 

Bucky lets out a soft snicker—it has been a few years since anyone could actually mistake Boomer for being “little”---he is lanky and long, his height nearly surpassing Bucky’s shoulders, even if he _is_ made entirely of scrawny limbs and jutting bones. Whatever the super-soldier serum may have passed on to him, he seems to have retained some of Steve’s original form. Bucky smiles as a vision of a corduroy-clad blond weed of a kid runs down the alleyway that used to take them into town, glancing over his shoulder and yelling ‘ _C’mon, Buck! We’ll be late for the picture show!_ ’

 

“He’s fine,” Bucky announces, shaking the memory out of his head. “He’s upset, but he’ll get over it. Just like we all do.” The _we all_ Bucky refers to needs no explanation; it’s a very rare thing to find a male who actually wants his reproductive affiliation to be Omega—in most cases, it’s devastating; sentencing the sufferer to a lifetime of unspeakable misery, abuse and bias.

 

“I worry about him.” Rumlow flexes, and it’s only then that Bucky realizes that at some point during the conversation, big arms have knotted themselves around his waist, his back now pressing into Rumlow’s tactical vest.

 

“I’m still fucking pissed,” Bucky growls in warning. “You lied to me. Lied. About _my son._ You had him spend his first heat at your place— _yours—_!”

 

“Hey, hey…sh…” Rumlow smooths back Bucky’s hair from his forehead and damned if it doesn’t get him practically purring. He grits his teeth and fights the calming, controlling sensation pulling at him, but only as long as his nerves can stand. He feels his body relax into the touch, hates himself for it, eyes fluttering closed and letting out a shuddering breath as the warm scent surrounds him, draws him in, pulling him back and flattening him to Rumlow’s wide chest. “Baby, you know I’d never do anything to hurt him.” Rumlow’s voice is sincere, the saccharine love-song he’s wooing him with having dropped back into his normal tone. “I love him like he was my own.”

 

“He loves you, too,” Bucky mumurs, turning his face into Rumlow’s ear, pressing their foreheads together.

 

A low growl rumbles up from somewhere in Rumlow’s chest and a hand clasps around Bucky’s throat, keeping his head stationary as their lips press together. Bucky gasps and tries to move his head back, unsuccessfully, as Rumlow devours his open mouth. “Fuck….baby…” His wide tongue splays out into Bucky’s mouth, lapping up the taste.

 

“Mmmh—“ Bucky’s metal hand flies up to tug at Rumlow’s collar, but even the synapses in his mechanical arm seem to be misfiring under the convincing haze. Rumlow’s grip is fierce, unrelenting, and Bucky is flattened up against the counter before he can utter a coherent word. He claws at the slick surface for leverage, scattering gun parts and toppling the bottle of grease to the floor. Rumlow’s hands seem to be everywhere at once, pulling his thighs apart, reaching up under his tactical vest, fingers brushing against the soft hair dusting his navel as his belly clenches and ebbs from struggling breath.

 

* * * * *

 

Rumlow pulls his head back with a fistful of auburn hair, nipping at Bucky’s collar and growling when he can’t get to the scent gland. Bucky smells like Steve and it’s making his stomach turn _. Fucking Steve!_ He is watching Bucky’s metal arm carefully from the corners of his vision, but Bucky is moaning, his chest heaving under the weight of the love-spell. It’s easy, the poor bastard. Bucky has been his before. The familiar scent still clings to him, somewhere down deep, calling to a primal urge to listen, _to obey_ his alpha.

 

Rumlow is his alpha. Not Steve—that fucking, goody-good, blue eyed church boy. Rumlow knows what Bucky wants, what he needs. A finely-tuned machine requires a steady, skillful hand.

 

He drags Bucky’s zipper down with his teeth, the smell from the gland rolling out and nearly choking him. This used to be his. All of it. He bucks against Bucky’s spread legs, against the warmth and the hardness that presses against his own trapped, aching junk, grinning as those emerald eyes roll back into his pretty auburn head, exposing—no, _presenting_ —that milky-white neck and the bobbing Adam’s apple and that _forsaken scent gland_ that smells too much like Captain-fucking-Merica. “Jesus-god, you’re beautiful,” he groans into it, tongue flicking out to lick a stripe of saliva up the gland.

 

Bucky freezes.

 

“It’s okay, baby,” Rumlow coaxes, his thumbs drawing little circles around Bucky’s hips. “Shh, sweetheart. I’m gonna make it all okay.”

 

“Mhh….stop…” Bucky’s moving in the opposite direction, now, flattening himself to the stone wall and gaining whatever little space between them he can.

 

“Bucky,” Rumlow grinds out between clenched teeth.

 

“—stop it. Steve, he…”

 

A ball of pure rage works itself out of Rumlow and he wrenches Bucky’s head back. “So sick of hearing that fucking name—“

 

“Professor Barnes—?“ Brock turns towards the sudden whine of the door being opened. A knock-kneed, red-faced student stands there shaking like a wet Chihuahua. “Oh, uhm…”

 

It’s enough to jolt Bucky back into the real world, because a metal fist is in Brock’s hair and his face meets the counter, spattering blood against its slick surface. It smells like gun grease and Bucky’s arousal and Rumlow grits his teeth through the pain to breathe in that scent as deep as he can get it, so far back in his lungs he’ll be smelling it for a week because chances are that’s the last time he’ll get to for a while. “You fucking…”  Bucky doesn’t bother finishing the sentence, releasing him with a shove and turning quickly to the bewildered student while smoothing his hair back into place. “What is it?,” he barks.

 

The kid jumps. “Uhm. S-sorry, we were wondering where the extra sparring gloves are..?”

 

Rumlow shoves past the kid, dragging the cuff of his shirt across his face. All it seems to do is smatter the blood. He can feel Bucky’s eyes boring a hole in his back. Whatever. He can deal with the fallback later. He needs to find something tight and wet to plow his aching dick into, the sooner the better.

 

* * * * *

 

“Cool hair.”

 

Boomer blinks and absentmindedly scrubs at his locks. “Oh this?” He ducks his head, staring at the space in between his bare feet. “It’s not intentional.”

 

His friend quirks an eyebrow, hefting the console case up higher on his shoulder. “Hey, this thing is getting heavy.”

 

“Oh, right, sorry.” Boomer steps aside to let him pass and his eyes flicker up to the hallway mirror. His hair has an eerie red tinge to it. It looks more strawberry than blond, and it seems to be getting worse.

 

“So, your first heat, huh?” Noa is a neighbor kid and a (now) fellow Omega, but he never has seemed to let that bother him, a fact that absolutely astounds Boomer. Boomer had been convinced, not so long ago, that when he presented as an Alpha he might consider mating with Noa, when the time came, and even had gone so far as to envision what their pups would look like. Noa is a bit stockier than Boomer, with eyes like poached pears that perfectly match his coiffed chocolate brown hair.

 

Noa slides down to the carpeted floor and hooks up the controllers to his game system, chatting all the while about his first heat, how he pretty much knew he was going to present as an omega, how his older sister discovered him in the bathroom with the end of her hair brush stuck up his ass and wouldn’t speak to him for months afterword (not to mention making him buy her a new hairbrush). He talks about it so nonchalantly that it has Boomer’s stomach doing backflips. He glances at him over his shoulder, ripped jeans showing off the perfect curve of his backside. “You want to be player 1 or player 2?”

 

“Uhm. I don’t care.”

 

Noa sits back on his heels, a soft, sympathetic expression crossing his face. “Hey.”

 

Boomer’s blue eyes flick up to meet his.

 

“You’re going to be okay. I promise. Your Dad got you some heat suppressants, right?”

 

“Yeah.” Boomer’s face glows beet red. That’s something he could do without remembering—as soon as his Dad has brought him home, he had been carted off to the doctor’s office and forced to endure an embarrassing exam complete with gloved fingers pressing up into places inside of him that he hadn’t known existed, all for a couple of pills that barely dampered the crazy hormones currently waging war with his body.

 

Steve called the school, excusing Boomer for the rest of the week to live out his miserable condition without the unwanted attention from his Alpha classmates. “Call up one of your friends, you know, someone who’s…ya know…been through this,” Steve had insisted. That knot in Boomer’s stomach had grown tighterr. His Dad was so ashamed of him he couldn’t even bring himself to say the word. _Omega_ ; Submissive. Lesser. Weak. Boomer slides down beside Noa, scraping up a controller and staring lifelessly at the projector screen as the game starts up. He’s hoping it’s a First-Person Shooter. He could really go for blowing a zombie’s head up right now.

 

“Oh, I almost forgot!,” Noa exclaims, reaching into the bag. “I brought our assignments from second and fifth hours today. And this.” A clear plastic package tumbles out, and Boomer’s eyes go wide.

 

“Wh—what’s that?”

 

Noa snickers as he pushes the package towards him. “Go on. It’s yours.”

 

Boomer’s eyes slide from the package, to Noa’s grinning face, and back again. “What does it do?”

 

Noa’s voice grows quiet as he peeks around the empty apartment. “What do you think?”

 

Boomer’s face is hot and his heartbeat is pounding in his ears as he inspects the present. Encased inside it is a 10” long, impossibly thick flesh-colored silicone tube with a bulbous tip and blue veins that run the length of it. It’s heavy, and Boomer wiggles the box experimentally; it sloshes softly from side to side like a water balloon. “No.” Boomer immediately shoves it back into the bag, way down deep, as if he could make it disappear altogether, and Noa squeaks out an impish giggle.

 

“Dude, what’s the matter? You don’t like it?”

 

“No. It’s not that. It’s…thanks but, no.” Boomer draws his knees up to his chest, staring out at nothing, looking beaten.

 

“Aww, man. I’m sorry. I just thought that…”

 

“Yeah, I know.” Boomer scrapes his fingers through his hair. “It’s just, I don’t need it.” He raises his chin, the light returning to his eyes as he forces a smile. “I already have a mate.”

 

It’s Noa’s turn to look shocked. “You…you do?!” He wriggles closer, his voice dropping, head lowered. “Do I know him? Do your parents know him? Do…do your parents know you two are…?”

 

Boomer shrugs. “Yeah, they know him. And, the thing is, we haven’t actually…ya know…yet. Not yet. But we will.”

 

“Yeah?” Noa closes all space between them, looping their forearms together as his eyes burn intently into Boomer’s. “ _When_?”

 

Boomer ponders his answer, biting down nervously on his bottom lip before straightening up and gathering his resolve. “Tonight,” he answers.

 

 _Yeah_ , he thinks. _Tonight_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wanna be your mate!” Boomer launches himself at Rumlow, tangled arms and legs wrapping around his neck and waist, giggling happily. He smooshes his face into Rumlow’s giving his cheek a wet kiss, then the tip of his nose, then his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all angsty shit. Without giving everything away, YES this is really the last chapter of the fic but NO this series is not done, not by a long shot! 
> 
> This chapter does include a very large, very graphic rape scene. Please scroll past the second bar of stars when you see it if you don't wish to read this part.

[](http://s611.photobucket.com/user/Jamie_Lyn_Gaskin/media/Boomerb_zpsbsfcbgug.jpg.html)

_11 Years prior…_

_The radio crackled at every bump they hit as the beat-up little truck made its way down the two-track. The 4-year old in the front seat was undeterred, sticking his fingers out as far as they would go as if to touch the clouds that went by._

_“Uncle Rummy what’s married?”_

_“What?” Rumlow chuckled,  turning his head momentarily to smile down at the pup. He had insisted on wearing Rumlow’s red baseball cap, even though it hung well below the tips of his ears and barely allowed him to see past the wide brim. “Where’d you pick that up?”_

_“Dad said him and Daddy are married. What’s that?”_

_“Well, kid,” Rumlow turned a corner down the trail as branches rattled past. As the foliage became thicker, he tapped the kid’s forearm and he obediently drew his hand back into the vehicle, just as they had practiced. “Good boy,” he muttered on afterthought. “Lessee…when two people love each other very much….{or one person screws up and gets the other pregnant}…”_

_“What?”_

_“Nothing. When two people love each other, they make a promise to be with each other for always.”_

_His fuzzy blond eyebrows angled upward in shock and he gazed at his Uncle in wonder. “For always, always? Like, forever?”_

_“Yeah, kiddo. Like forever.”_

_This seemed to please the runt. He set back into his seat, clutching the seatbelt tight and squealing in joy as they went over a particularly big bump._

_Rumlow’s head disappeared into those clouds. His heart soared whenever Boomer flashed him that big, toothy grin. Made him want to give him the world._

_“I like that.”_

_“The big bump?”_

_Boomer nodded. “And married. Are you married Uncle Rummy?”_

_“Nah.”_

_Boomer’s brow furled. “Why not?”_

_Rumlow shrugged. “Well….maybe I just haven’t found that special person yet.” Y_

_Boomer sat silent for a while, his little mouth pursed in thought. Suddenly, he raised a finger, turned in his seat, and announced, “You and me will be married, then.”_

_“Oh, we will?”_

_“Yup. You and me can get married and then Uncle Rummy won’t ever be alone.”_

_Rumlow scrubbed at the loose red baseball cap, wobbling it around on the fuzzy tuft of hair below. “Well, kiddo, you’re a little young.”_

_Boomer looked genuinely offended. “No’m not. I am 4 and two months.”_

_Rumlow laughed. “Yeah. Yes, you are.”_

_“Good. It’s a deal then. Me and Uncle Rummy will get married. Next week!”_

_“Next week!?”_

_“Uh-huh.” Boomer resolutely straightened his Uncle’s hat on top of his head and turned back towards his window. The trees had thinned and the blue sky returned, bright and open and airy. His hand slipped back out, into the free air, the stray wisps of blond hair fluttering underneath the hat._

_Rumlow knew that Boomer would be home in less than five minutes. He would bolt out the door, run up the driveway and scamper into his Dad’s arms and forget all about his proposal. Rumlow would have to listen as Steve went on about how he shouldn’t have had the kid in the front seat to begin with, with Rumlow responding that it’s just a two-track, they weren’t going that fast, and to pull his pedigreed blond head out of his retentive asshole and let the kid have some fun._

_Next week would come and go, with Boomer obsessing about the latest board game, or a new kid in his preschool or how much he liked turtles._

_But for now, it was just Uncle Rummy and Boomer, making their way home the “back way”—wind in their faces and the whole world at their feet. And for the five minutes that “marriage” was a concept fresh in his mind, Rumlow was happily engaged._

* * * * *

“Dude, your face is fucked up.” Rollins’ expression is one of sheer amusement as he leads Rumlow on through the kitchen of his penthouse apartment, past a scowling redheaded woman. Rollins may be bigger (and play a little nastier, if Rumlow’s being honest) but he has a taste for the finer things in life. Rumlow eyes a diapered toddler as she careens across his path, sippy cup in hand.

 

“Fuck,” Rumlow murmurs. “How many do you have?”

 

“Seven,” Rollins announces proudly. “But we’re aiming for twenty.”

 

Rumlow eyes his colleague suspiciously. “You mean, “we” or just “you”?”

 

Rollins shrugs and shoots him a guilty smirk . “Just me.”

 

Rumlow nods sharply, sliding a knowing glance to the dark-haired figure that sits on the couch, a room away.

 

Rollins smile grows darker. “You wanna meet ‘im?”

 

Rumlow passes his tongue over his parched lips and flexes his fist inside the pocket of his fatigues. He nods, stepping silently into the room. The man is young, probably in his early twenties, with straight black hair that spills over a billowy cotton peasant top. His ocean-blue eyes are focused away from the two of them, towards the window but not particularly focused on the world outside of it. He couldn’t have been cheap—he has model good-looks and everything on him is slender and lithe—not a body one would consider possible after birthing seven pups.

 

“He’s a part of the breeding program,” Rollins says, as if reading Rumlow’s thoughts. “You take some super-serum and mix it up with a bunch of stress-modifiers, throw in a splash of regenerative DNA, add a Ukrainian houseboy, and—“ Rollins closes the gap between himself and the kid, pulling his head back with a fist buried in his sleek, black hair to leer intensely down at him. “—you get Sasha.”

 

A tinge of guilt tightens somewhere deep inside Rumlow. He is being selfish, he knows this. He is taking advantage of another human being and something about that should bother him; he knows that too. But his cock twitches eagerly as the scent of wildflowers and caraway permeates the room.

 

“Sasha,” Rollins instructs, guiding the boy’s eyes with a turn of his chin until they land on his workmate. “This is Rumlow.”

 

With Sasha’s head turned towards him, Rumlow catches the glimmer of a solid metal collar hanging at the kid’s throat. The knot in his stomach gets tighter. “Rumlow,” the boy mutters obediently. His eyes fall somewhere at Rumlow’s chest.

 

“That’s it. Good boy.” Rollins tugs on the collar and the kid stands up. Rollins wide hand lands on his backside with a resounding CRACK and the kid doesn’t even jump. “Go say hi.”

 

Rollins likes to watch. It’s been years since Rumlow has shared one of Rollins’ omegas, but Rollins has taken a liking to this particular one—and hasn’t been willing to share up until now. Having pups with an omega changes things, Rumlow supposes. Sure, Rollins might be the same asshole he’s always been, but now, he’s home for dinner every night and hasn’t taken another lover since getting with Sasha two years ago.

 

Sasha comes closer, languidly sliding his arms around Rumlow’s neck and Rumlow’s eyes flicker over his shoulder to Rollins. Rollins nods. “Go ahead, man. Knock yourself out.” The over-muscled brunet sprawls on the couch, eyes locked on the back of Sasha’s head. 

 

Rumlow lets both hands slip around the his slight waste and he chuckles. “Fuck, kid, how do you fit pups in there?” He feels as silky as he smells, and Rumlow freely noses at his neck, just under the heavy silver collar.

 

Sasha doesn’t moan into him or anything—he clearly is doing only as he’s told and isn’t particularly enjoying this one bit. Somehow, some inexplicable way, it makes Rumlow even hotter. “’Beer?” Rollins asks, sliding one across the coffee table towards him and cracking one open for himself on the edge.

 

“Thanks,” Rumlow says, turning to the chair opposite where Rollins sits, keeping one arm around Sasha’s waist and guiding him to his lap.

 

Sasha may be pretty, but his ass is boney and not the two firm mounds of muscled flesh he’s used to on Bucky. The kid’s ass sinks into his lap, his whole body stiffening upright when he encounters the swollen eggplant Rumlow is sporting in his pants. Rumlow bites down on his bottom lip, turning a sharp growl into a groan halfway out of his throat.

 

“SIT,” Rollins barks before taking a swig of his beer and shaking his head towards Rumlow. “Sorry, man. We’re still learning. Sometimes we like to exercise our free will and see how far we can push things before getting punished. Isn’t that right, Sasha?”

 

Sasha swallows hard, his dead eyes planted on the carpet, before murmuring, “Yes.”

 

Rollins swallows down the beer in two gulps and kicks his boots off onto the floor. “Like last night. Why don’t you tell Rumlow what happened last night, Sasha?”

 

“I…” Sasha’s eyes suddenly flicker upwards, burning into Rumlow’s as if begging him to stop it. Rumlow skirts a hand down his spine, lifting up the billowy top to run his fingers back up the soft, smooth skin and Sasha shivers. “I told you no last night.”

 

“Yes, you did. You told me “no” when I tried to fuck you, which wasn’t very nice. So what happened?”

 

“I got…” Sasha squirms as if moving could help somehow alleviate some of his discomfort, the crevasse of his ass planting itself firmly against Rumlow’s arched, trapped frenulum. Rumlow hisses, planting wide hands on either side of Sasha’s sharp hip bones and rutting upward. “Mmmh---“ Sasha hides in his sleek black hair, a glow of pink settling along his cheeks. “I got locked away.”

 

Rumlow’s mind reels as to what that could mean. Did Rollins keep the kid in some kind of makeshift prison? Of course, it wouldn’t be much different from what they did with the Winter Soldier experiments, which is probably where Rollins got the idea anyway.

 

“Show him,” Rollins commands.

 

Sasha’s pleading eyes now turn to Rollins, his mouth hanging open as if to beg. “But…” His eyes dart across the room, to the sound of the children playing in the adjacent room. “The babies.”

 

Rollins shakes his head. “Molly is with the babies,” he insists. Rumlow thinks back to the red-haired woman in the kitchen and connects the dots; she must be the baby sitter, or the maid, probably amply compensated for her silence in the fucked-up situation at hand. “You show Rumlow what happens when you misbehave.”

 

The lanky kid stands up with a huff, facing Rumlow and grasping the hips of his jeans and pulling them down in one fluid motion. He’s still hiding in his hair, one knee slightly bent as if to hide himself. A gold-colored cock cage wraps itself around his flaccid length, a padlock of matching color connecting the ring underneath his shaved testicles to the tear-drop shaped prison of his cock. “Fffffuck,” Rumlow growls, reaching out to grasp the smooth metal. Sasha jumps, fighting back the wetness forming in his eyes and the urge to move away from the touch. “Jesus Christ, Rollins, you fucked-up asshole, it’s exquisite.”

 

Rollins flashes him a sly grin and starts another beer. “You’re part of his punishment, too.”

 

Rumlow lifts an eyebrow. “Really.”

 

“Yup.” His feet land on the table with a heavy “THUD”, earning a shiver from the omega. “Sasha’s not been touched by anyone but his alpha. Ain’t that right sweet-pea?”

 

In any other situation, Rumlow might have at least had the decency to whisper something soothing into the kid’s ear, to brush his hair away from his face with a coaxing hand, to promise he’d go gentle, maybe even draw him in for a kiss. But the fear in his eyes feeds the hunger, and as one ragged breath tickles Rumlow’s throat, he lunges forward, all clawing hands and biting teeth, knocking the lithe omega to the floor and following him down.

 

“Jesus, Brock!” Rollins is half off the couch himself, frozen with his claws in the couch, hackles raised. He stops himself, though, caught in the ferocity and thrill of it all.

 

Sasha has been reduced to a whimpering mess, the delicate peasant shirt being rucked up clear to his elbows, the fabric muffling is helpless cries. He doesn’t fight back, doesn’t dare to—Rumlow can do what he wants and there’s nothing anybody can or will do about it. Not now.

 

 He jerks at his belt and it flies free, one hand keeping steady pressure on Sasha’s neck, practically bolting him to the carpet with a fist wrapped around the solid steel collar at his throat. “How long has it been, huh, Princess?” Rumlow frees his trapped dick with a heave of his hips, the protrusion slapping against the inside of Sasha’s warm thigh as he wriggles.

 

“Don’t you dare tear him,” Rollins spits, but his stance belies his menacing tone. He is back to leaning his elbow on one knee, taking intermittent swigs out of the glass bottle in his hand.

 

“He’s not even slick,” Rumlow argues, down to finger into the writhing omega’s tight, dry hole. Sasha is panting beneath him, one fist pulling at Rumlow’s shirt, threatening to pop the buttons.

 

“Sasha,” Rollins barks, and the struggle ceases.

 

“Don’t, don’t, please…” His black hair spilling on the carpet and all around him, like a fallen angel, he shakes his head slowly, pleadingly, eyes glossy with tears. “I’m sorry. I will be good. Just _please—“_

Rumlow cups a hand over Sasha’s mouth before spitting into his open palm and rubbing it furiously at the kid’s unforgivingly tight entrance. Calloused fingers push past the stubborn ring of muscle and Sasha’s chest heaves with a muffled sob. “Sorry, kid,” Rumlow grinds out. He gives his hole a few quick jabs before lining himself up and bottoming out in one fluid thrust.

 

Rumlow’s eyes shut tight, his face pressed to Sasha’s cheek, hot and stained with Sasha’s tears. The walls of strained muscles are bearing down on his aching cock, swallowing him in and pushing him out simultaneously. Rumlow finds his sweet spot, a soft, dough-like mound buried deep inside of him and rocks against it. He cradles the pathetic creature, one arm lifting his head off the floor, the other wrapped around his leg, keeping it over his waist as he mercilessly plows in.

 

He thinks about the wiry blond from the night before pressed against his bathroom door, begging to be fucked. His mind’s eyes lingers on those swollen pink nipples and his flushed, elegant skin, the heat-addled teen coming in thick, white spurts with Rumlow’s name on his lips.

 

He shudders as the world around him explodes, his nails digging into the taught flesh of the trapped body beneath him, giving out with a few dry grunts as he rides his climax. He feels the familiar press at the hilt of his dick as his knot inflates, locking himself and his seed inside for the duration.

 

“Fuck…” Rumlow pushes up on his hands, careful not to jolt the bond and hurt them both, giving Sasha some much-needed breathing room. His eyes stare out into nothingness, lifeless and cloudy like the sea after a storm.

 

The knot lasts twenty minutes or so, after which Rumlow pulls out smoothly, his eyes discreetly falling to his limp cock and Sasha’s spent hole as white liquid seeps out. “I’m fine,” he murmurs, picking himself up off the floor before Rumlow can offer a hand. He smoothes his cotton shirt back down over his boney shoulder blades which are scored and red, a little bloody.

 

The knot in Rumlow’s stomach returns. He doesn’t know quite what this feeling is, but it’s beginning to get worrisome. He frowns a little, but only for a moment as he is distracted by Rollins giving him a congratulatory pat on the back. “Fuck, man. That was hot. Thanks for the show.”

 

“Thanks for the invitation.” He flashes his teammate a toothy grin and pretends not to notice when Rollins scoops up Sasha’s discarded jeans from the floor and throws them at him.

 

“ _Go get in the shower_ ,” he instructs, bending low to Sasha’s ear. “ _You’re going to make up for what he just did to you, you hear me?_ ”

 

The lanky omega slips through the bedroom doorway with one bitter nod of his black-haired head. “The young boy,” he says, loud enough to drop Rumlow where he stands. “I can smell him on you.”

 

Rollins gives him a hard slap on his bare, raw ass but Sasha continues, undeterred. “Treat him with kindness.” Rollins next words are most likely threats, but they are guttural and ground out between Rollins’ mouth and Sasha’s ear, one hand clamping down around his slender arm and throwing him towards the center of the room.

 

“He’s going to pay for that one,” he assures Rumlow as the pair walk the opposite way, back towards the front door.

 

Rumlow is still buckling his belt when they reach the entryway. His dark eyes slide back to the peaceful scene in the kitchen; toddlers and babies gathered around the counter, “helping” the nanny cut out shapes into rolled sugar cookie dough. The nanny (Molly, was it?) lifts her head and Rumlow faces forward before their eyes can meet.

 

“Take it easy on him, okay?”

 

Rollins chuckles. “Look at you, getting all soft and gooey in your old age.”

 

Rumlow shrugs, scooping up his leather jacket and jingling the keys in his pocket. “Yeah maybe. Still, he’s the father of your pups.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, boss.” Rollins swings the front door wide, shamelessly adjusting the massive bulge he’s been packing for the past hour. “Don’t  you worry. I’ll make it good for him.”

 

“Yeah. Okay.” The door slides shut. The hallway is quiet , except for the patter of wings as a moth beats itself against the ornate lamp suspended above his head. He watches it with eerie fascination, counting the number of hits it makes with those burned little wings before tumbling to the carpet below. Rumlow grins and crushes it under his boot as he walks past, the crunch of the exoskeleton muffled by the black rubber sole.

 

Thirty-seven.

 

His text alert chimes suddenly and he digs his phone out on the way to the parking garage. He glances down with a quirked eyebrow at the strange message.

 

>From: Bucky’s i-Phone<

>To: Rumlow’s Android<

 

>>>>>Paradise Bridge, 7pm<<<<<

 

He glances at the time and calculates that he has about twenty minutes to get there.

 

He makes it in ten.

 

* * * * *

 

It could be Bucky, standing there at the mouth of the dam, elbows perched on either side of the painted old railing. His hair is blood-red in the setting sun, the angles of the jacket in those slight shoulders pronounced and proud. That could be Bucky’s round ass poking out from the bottom of the burnt brown leather jacket. Almost.

 

“What the hell are you _doing_ here?” Rumlow approaches, flicking out his cigarette and grounding it against the pavement. Boomer turns, the blue in his eyes heightened by the auburn bangs. “What did you do to your hair?”

 

He runs a hand through sheepishly. “It’s been doing this since I presented. It just keeps getting darker, at like, an exponential rate.” He shakes his head as if to clear the thoughts away, turning to gather Rumlow’s gloved hands in his, gleaming up at him with a big bright smile. “But, that’s not what I’m here to talk about.”

 

Rumlow shakes his head. “Wait…how did you..?”

 

“I choked the throttle,” Boomer exclaims, as if that solves everything.

 

Currently, nothing about that sentence is computing. “What?”

 

Boomer licks his lips and recites as if he’s memorizing a verse from Leviticus. “Kickstand off, Open the petcock, Choke the throttle. Two twists on the handle, Kick it over twice. Lean into the Curve. Keep your back straight. Just like you taught me, you know. Just like you said.”

 

Rumlow’s eyes flutter sharply. “You rode the panhead down here?”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“Wait. Your _Daddy’s_ panhead?”

 

“ _Yeah_!”

 

“Boom, that’s the stupidest thing you could have done! Why the fuck would you do something like that? What if—what if you had gotten in an accident, huh?”

 

Boomer’s face contorts into disappointment, pain. “I…I thought you’d be proud of me.”

 

Rumlow sweeps his hand through the red streaks that have now taken over the banana-blond locks, following the strands down the side of his face, cupping his chin in his hands and angling his eyes upward. “Sweetheart, I am _very_ proud of you. And also, very pissed. And you are in so much shit. You realize that don’t you? Your Dads are getting out of work in an hour or less and when they find out you’re not home—“

 

“I know!” Nothing in the barrage of despairing information has any effect on his spirits. He only tugs on Rumlow’s hands harder, pulling them apart and guiding them around his waist. Rumlow blinks as the slight, flat chest presses against his own and that calming, incredible, spicy, _scintillating_ scent unfurls right under his nose. “Which is why we don’t have much time. We have to get back soon and tell them the good news.”

 

“Good news?”

 

“Yeah.” Boomer’s face flushes as he stares down bashfully at the space between his shoes. “About you and me.”

 

Rumlow pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a ragged sigh and shifting to create space between them. “Look…kid…your Uncle’s got a big-ass migraine starting and I’ve had a hell of a day, so you better start making sense soon, or—“

 

“I wanna be your mate!” Boomer launches himself at Rumlow, tangled arms and legs wrapping around his neck and waist, giggling happily. He smooshes his face into Rumlow’s giving his cheek a wet kiss, then the tip of his nose, then his mouth.

 

The supple skin of his lips taste tangy, like that energy drink Rumlow keeps telling him to lay off of. Rumlow is too busy reeling from the electricity that happens when their mouths touch to dwell on it, though. His thumb sweeps against Boomer’s bottom lip as fire awakens between his legs, his rut springing to life as if it had never been sated. He pulls the pouty lip down, tugging his mouth open to lap inside.

 

“MMh.” Boomer shifts, his mouth obeying, dropping open with a sigh as his little body responds.

 

Rumlow growls, his tongue trailing over unclaimed land, marking it with his scent, imprinting the memory of his _touch,_ his kiss, his teeth as he worries on the kid’s cupid’s bow and his fingernails skim through his feather-soft hair, nails dragging down his scalp and lighting little sparks wherever he touches. “Fuck, baby…so good…”

 

Boomer whimpers, his bottom wiggling against Rumlow’s hips, the contact so blissful and raw that Rumlow could swear he was bruised down there. “Yeah…” Boomer climbs him like a tree and Rumlow presses his body against the railing, his throbbing cock springing to life inside of his fatigues. “I’m ready, Uncle Rummy. I swear, I am.” Boomer brushes a bead of sweat from Rumlow’s brow and hisses as Rumlow’s hands find their way under his Daddy’s leather jacket and the thin tee shirt beneath. His belly ebbs with every breath, the skin firm and soft and deliciously scented.

 

“Yeah?” Rumlow moans, rutting shamelessly between Boomer’s jean-clad legs, reveling in the little, happy gasps he’s rewarded with.

 

“Yeah. I want to uhm…” Boomer blushes. “I mean, can we…mate? Then we’ll go home and tell Daddy and Dad and then we can be together.”

 

Rumlow growls into his ear, attacking his lobe and nipping at the scent gland below. “Oh, sweet boy, you have no idea how much I want that.”

 

“Mmh…me too. God, I want you so much. Please, I need you...” Boomer’s tongue wets his mouth as he tries this newfound adult language. “I need something…in me.”

 

“Mmmm….you mean, something big?”

 

“Yeah, big…”

 

“You want something to shove up inside that aching little hole of yours?” Boomer sighs against Rumlow’s open mouth. Rumlow’s calloused fingers brush over the buds of his chest and pinch down mercilessly, making Boomer jump. He scampers further up still, hooking both legs around Rumlow’s belt and hanging on for dear life as he’s flattened against the railing of the concrete abyss. “You want my cock, sweetie.”

 

“Uhhng…yes.”

 

“You want my big, fat cock in that tight little pussy of yours, is that it? You want me to pound it into you?” Rumlow gives his hips a demonstrative thrust and Boomer gasps happily. “You want me to fill you with my thick, hot come and give you my fat knot, is that it?”

 

“Yes!” Boomer kisses him furiously, as if the only air there is to breathe comes from Rumlow’s mouth. Their teeth scrape together in a frenzied rush, wet tongues mingling and tasting each other’s scents.

 

“You want me to take you home, sweet thing? You want me to make love to you?” Rumlow pulls away suddenly, one hand at the nape of Boomer’s neck. Boomer’s eyes are a lustful glaze and he whimpers at the loss of Rumlow’s mouth on his. “You don’t know how bad I want that.”

 

“I love you,” Boomer murmurs, pressing their foreheads together.

 

“I love you too, precious one. I love you more than anything. More than my breath. More than my life.” Rumlow pets his face and Boomer practically coos. If he catches the hint of sadness in Rumlow’s voice, he doesn’t show it. “Promise me you won’t hate me.”

 

Boomer’s eyes flutter. His arms loosen as he slips from Rumlow’s grasp, an uncomprehending expression marring the pretty features of his face. “Of course not. How could I? Why would..?”

 

The corner of Boomer’s eye catches a glint of a bright blue truck rumbling down the gravel path, towards them. An incredulous hiss catches in his throat, those sparkling cyan eyes turning into vengeful black pools. “You called them?”

 

Rumlow flicks the phone off before sliding it back into his pocket, staring out into the sliver of dying sun glowing over the horizon. “Go home, kid.” His voice is cold, commanding. Like the perfect Shield Agent, all lustful ardor and impassioned pleading gone from his tone.

 

Boomer takes a step forward, fists clenched, eyes burning. _“You called them?”_

Rumlow fishes out a cigarette, fumbling with it in his bruised fingers, inspecting the bent filter absentmindedly. “I raped someone today.”

 

Boomer’s eyes flash and he reels back as if he has just gotten sucker-punched in the solar plexus.

 

“Just a kid. Twenty one, twenty two, maybe. He’s someone’s house slave. So it’s not like I’ll go to jail for it. Fuck, it’s probably even legal.” He flicks his lighter, sweeping his thumb across the strike a few times until it ignites. He puffs at the cigarette, drawing the warm ash into his mouth, holding it there. Makes his eyes water just enough that it blurs the details of Boomer’s reaction. “He is just an omega. A fuck-toy, born and bred.” He puts the lighter away as two tall figures step out of the blue truck and approach. “Yeah, I fuckin’ bred him alright.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Boomer mumurs, his fists shaking, feet sliding a few steps backward towards the entrance.

 

“Nah, I didn’t figure you would. You’ve held me up on a pedestal for so long, I bet my shit’d smell like roses to you. But the point is, Boom, I would have done that same thing to you. Without  a second thought. Without mercy. No lovey-dovey, picking out curtains and planning baby showers shit. I would have fucked you—because that’s what I do. And you would have let me—because that’s what omegas do. You ain’t in love, kid. You know who does love you?” Rumlow points his cigarette out towards Bucky and Steve as they make their way to the bridge. “Those two idiots, there. Your parents are good people, Boom. They love you.”

 

“I love you,” Boomer says, his voice breaking.

 

“You’ll get over it,” Rumlow mutters.

 

“You’re full of shit, I hope you know that.” Boomer straightens his back, his eyes steeling their resolve. “I can see right through you. You think you know what I want? What I’m feeling? You don’t have a fucking _clue.”_

“Yeah. Okay.” Rumlow keeps his face turned, nodding bitterly at the sunset. “So grow the fuck up a little and prove me wrong, then, huh?”

 

A single icy tear makes its way down his cheek and he shakes his head in disgust. “ _Fuck you_.”

 

Rumlow listens to the footsteps as they pad their way down the gravel drive. Hears Bucky’s arms throwing themselves around his son, hears Boomer nearly collapse onto the gravel drive, sobs heaving from his chest. He glances towards Steve and sees the slightest nod from the stoic Captain. He doesn’t bother returning the gesture.

 

The truck peels out as quickly as it had come, down the gravel drive, out of sight, out of existence.

He draws in a shuddering breath as he burns away the remaining cinders between his fingers and dabs at a bit of moisture he feels falling on his face. Damn head-wound must have busted open. He sweeps his fingers against his cheek, brushing away at the warm sensation, then pulls his fingers away to inspect the damage.

 

“I’ll be damned,” he scoffs bitterly, staring down at the clear, salty stains.

 

 


End file.
